


Eyes On Fire

by Jerge



Category: South Park
Genre: Abuse, Angst, F/M, M/M, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:31:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jerge/pseuds/Jerge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curly Goth has inner turmoil and he’s thrown over the edge when Vamp kid Mike returns from Scottsdale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes On Fire

**Author's Note:**

> The little "abuse" tag doesn't seem very convincing, so I just want to say here that this fic revolves pretty heavily around abuse, especially parental abuse. There will also be: blood, slurs, graphic descriptions of cutting, acts of non-consensual touching and kissing, and violence.
> 
> Originally posted over on Fanfiction.net back on Feb 16, 2009. It should be noted that this was written way before the goth kids received canon names so there will be headcanon ones.

 

 

He lit a cigarette and inhaled it thickly, feeling his nerves wash in calm as the smoke slapped his tongue and warmed his chest. The flare of the lit end brightened with the next deep inhale, creating a glow in the night air.

Snow fell around him, but the boy refused to bow to chill.

He stood stiff, hand raised to his lips while the other was stuffed half-way into his jacket pocket.

“Smoking’s bad for you…”

He took another deep suck and blew the smoke out through his nose, senses tingling only faintly now. “So?”

“Aren’t you afraid that you’ll get cancer?” The other boy stepped out from behind the corner and entered the shallow alley that the Goth was in.

He leaned back, relaxing his shoulders against the wall of the building next to him. “What is there to fear?” He looked over at him dully, eyes caved in from the years of long, sleepless nights. “My existence would be no better or worse if I were to get cancer… All that would change would be those conformist bastards trying to force feed me their drugs and people to get all sappy and fake with me.”

He quirked a brow, “So it doesn’t matter if you die or not?”

He bit down on the bud of the cigarette and he spat the small nub out onto the frosty ground. He stomped it out, grinding it into the shallow snow, before he pulled another out of the pack that rested against his breast. Tucked between his scowling lips, he replied sourly, “Why are you back, poser?”

“Scottsdale was hell.”

“Good,” his eyes narrowed and his lighter clicked open. He lit the cigarette before he slid the small, metallic lighter back into his back pocket. “That was the point.”

“No, it wasn’t.” His eyes narrowed, darkened by charcoal-based make-up. “Why did you do that, anyway? I wasn’t doing anything, per se…”

The Goth’s hands clenched and his eyes grew large and livid. “I should fucking punch you, fag.”

He scowled back, “Stop avoiding it. Answer me.”

“Like I said before; ‘that was the reason.’ You and your fucking friends just had to join that stupid fucking trend and taint our reputation with your stupid, fucking, preppy ways. Even after we shipped you away, burned down the new Hot Topic, and made the public statement to the school, everyone still thought of us as stupid fucking _vampires!_ ”

He wore his teeth wide, shaped canines flashing.

The Goth glare only grew deeper and he spat another cigarette onto the ground. His fists balled and shook in his anger.

“You’re so... ego centric!” Mike shouted at him, eyes growing sharper, just like his teeth. “God forbid someone do something like you but call it something different! You hide behind your stupid views but you’re just like me! You’re not dressing and acting like that because you’re depressed! You’re acting like that because you thought it was _cool_ , because it guaranteed you _popularity_ in a group that you really liked!”

His face was red, chest heaving. “You’re just like me, you prick! You follow every stereotype Goths are and you claim to be anti-conformist? _Hypocrite!_ ” His voice had raised several octaves, cracking and sinking suddenly as he ranted further, puberty slamming full throttle into him.

Curly Goth’s fists were shaking more.

“You’re just hiding... _faking_ ,” spittle flung past his lips and he nervously cleaned himself, trying to keep some dignity, “ _faking_ to be wounded and gloomy and hopeless because you want _attention._ _Just like everyone else!_ ”

He lunged, knuckles cracking against the straight-haired teen’s chin. The skin on Curly Goth’s hand tore and blood gently built from the new wound. He panted angrily, hand cracking close by his side. The bones were at the very least fractured. “Fuck you,”

His eyes might have been as equally angry, but there was a slight glint of success behind the film of rage. He had stumbled back, spacing himself from the other. His chin was red but was nothing compared to his attackers hand.

The curly-haired teen refused to cradle his injured hand, refusing to show any form of emotion other than his anger.

God damn, he should have brought his cane.

“You. Don’t. Know. Me!” His chest heaved, limbs shaking a little. He started to calm only slightly, breath settling.

Mike gulped heavily, “Leave us alone,”

Curly Goth’s eyebrows perked, “Us?” He sent a dark look at him, hooked nose and frightening eyes and dark surroundings giving him the look of a vulture.

“ _Us_? Don’t you know? After you left, all your ‘friends’ went back to their _pop_ music and _slutty_ clothes. You’re the last vamp.” He scoffed heavily, “I’m surprised you’re still one, actually...”

The success in his eyes drained away and he squinted at him, “What?”

“Yeah,” he had freshly lit cigarette in his unwounded, smoking hand, “Even with all those fags not dressing up as us, _that_ stupid fucking name stuck.” Smoke bellowed from his nose like a raging bull.

He shifted to his other foot, lips rolling in on each other. “Fine, whatever, I give up. I’m not getting anywhere in this conversation. I don’t even remember what I was talking about to begin with.” He pressed his bangs out of his face and he turned around, bringing his back to Curly Goth.

He pressed himself against his wall again and watched as the last remaining vamp in South Park leave the alley. His eyes felt heavy as his anger and adrenaline wore off, leaving him in a very satisfying state of mental and physical exhaustion.

He blew a ring of smoke into the air and slid down to the alley floor. He placed his hand on his lap and looked down at his swelling hand.

“Shit,”

* * *

 

“Where is he?” Henrietta asked from her fancy black bed and at her two male companions.

Red Goth shrugged, leaning back against her bed with his eyes pointed at her face.

Kindergoth, no longer a kindergartener but rather a freshman, shrugged himself and he kept himself close and secluded to his journal.

She sighed and pulled her poetry book out. She was just about to start reading when her bedroom door slammed open and a very disgruntled Curly Goth stepped in.

“Where have you been?” Red Goth eyed him from his lounged position.

He grunted and sat down next to the black-and-red-haired teen. “The vampfag is back.”

The other Goths all turned their attention to him.

“Yeah?” Henrietta said in a low, uninterested tone.

He raised his freshly bandaged hand and grunted again, “Broke my hand punching him in the jaw,”

Red Goth looked at him with a suspicious look, “Yeah?” He blew cigarette smoke into the air, clouding it further, “Since when were you one for punching?”

“You should know that jaw bones are stronger than the bones in your knuckles,” Kindergoth muttered, nose still buried in his journal.

“Apparently I wasn’t thinking too clearly; too clouded by the hatred towards him and the world.”

Henrietta rolled her eyes and lifted her book back up, scanning across several titles.

“Well, good fucking job for you.” Red Goth growled.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped back.

Henrietta snarled, “You two are acting like fucking teenagers.”

He glowered for a small moment before he rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Conformists.”

In a flash, the boy with dyed red hair slammed into him and his fists were wrapped around his curls.

Curly Goth flinched and he fought back, slamming his palms against the other’s chest and forcing him onto the floor, away from him.

“Guys!” Henrietta shouted at them, smoke puffing from her lips as she leaned over the floor and glared at them.

Red Goth punched him in the face, teeth shown in a subconscious show of fury. “Faggot!”

“Cocksucker!” He punched him back, only this time he did so in the ribs. His broken hand was pressed too roughly against the other teen’s shoulder, only shifting the bones more.

The shortest member of the group stood up silently and left. The door snapped close loudly behind him.

He kicked at him, slamming his shin into the curly-haired teen’s groin.

His eyes grew wide and he gasped, spittle dripping over his lower lip and onto Red Goth’s shirt. He was kicked off of the other teen and he gagged, clenching his aching crotch. “Fuck,”

Red Goth scrambled to his feet and he glared down at his “friend”. He spat onto him.

“Fuck, stop that you two! You’re both acting like a bunch of Jocks!”

Curly Goth stood up and he gagged heavily, “That was a pussy-ass move.” He wiped the spit off of his cheek.

His eyes narrowed, “Yeah, well, _I’m_ not the one pussing out over a little kick in the balls.”

“How about I—!” He jolted forward before he stumbled back a little.

Red Goth put up a defensive stance.

He sighed heavily. “Fuck this.” He turned to the door, limping towards it. He left, feeling like a dog with its tail between its legs.

* * *

 

The faux red-head stood next to his others, lips pert to the student walking by. Their small “coven”-esque spot that dipped away from the busy hall and was the perfect place to both show their stray from the everyday life of their “peers” as well as to smoke out of view of the cameras.

Stan Marsh stepped by, arms around Wendy’s shoulder, and laughed along with her.

Red Goth’s temper flashed.

Henrietta scoffed, “Fake bigots,”

“Hormone-driven Preps,” he rolled off.

“Conformists,” the youngest said.

Their eyes rolled over to their fourth member whom had quickly pulled himself from the clogged hallway.

He threw his carrier bag onto the ground and pushed himself to the back of the small area, to the forever-locked door.

His lip was split and a raging black-and-blue-and-yellow bruise was spread wide across his cheek. His hand was in a formal splint and it seemed to be colored over with black marker. By the smell of it; Sharpie.

“It happened again,” The young Goth muttered to the other two.

They said nothing.

He looked at Red Goth curiously, “What did I miss?”

Red Goth’s eyes glowered as he glanced over at the tallest of them all, “We fought and I _kicked him in the balls!_ ” He ground out from his teeth loudly.

Kindergoth stepped to the side.

Curly Goth said nothing. He simply picked up his bag and walked away from them, leaning heavily against his cane.

Henrietta melted for a brief moment before her stoic character fell back into place. “He seems really hurt.” Her voice was even.

“He does,” Red Goth muttered.

“Yeah,”

* * *

 

_He was slammed into the wall. He slid down emotionlessly to the floor where he sat in a slumped state. His eyes were held strong against the man’s face._

“ _Why don’t you understand this, Logan?” He shouted at him, “Why don’t you understand that all this bullshit you’re pulling is bad for you?”_

_He cracked a smile, “Bad for me?” He picked himself up, hand held against the wall, “_ _**Bad for me** _ _?” Anger flushed across his face like wildfire._

“ _What a sick joke!” Curly Goth screamed only that much louder, “You think my behavior is_ _ **bad for me?**_ _What are these daily throw-downs then? Huh?! A walk in the park? Going to a fucking ballgame?”_

“ _These are for you’re—”_

“ _My_ _ **what**_ _? Own good?” He scoffed loudly._

_He slapped him, pushing him to the wall, “Don’t interrupt me.”_

“ _Sure thing,_ _ **Dad**_ _!” He was shaking._

“ _Don’t change the subject!” The black-haired man snapped, “I’ve heard you haven’t been going to class again. And look at yourself! Your hand is so swollen! It’s probably broken! You’re getting into fights too? Do you have any other_ _ **hobbies**_ _you’re doing that are going to be costing me more money? Anything else destructive like your cigarette smoking?”_

_His eyes wavered over his father’s face._

“ _Go on, tough guy! Say it!”_

_He was stuck, heart thumping and stomach tight._

“ _ **Tell me,**_ _” he stepped forward and grabbed a hold of the collar of his son’s shirt._

“ _Fuck you,” he flinched as his father punched him square in the cheek._

“ _Tell me!”_

“ _Fuck you, you abusive bastard!” He spat out before another punch landed close to his lips. The curly-haired boy landed to the floor, face to hardwood floor, and his lower lip split open._

“ _What would your mother say if she could see you like this?”_

_His chest ached, “That you’re a son of a bitch.”_

“ _What would your mother say if she could see you like this?”_

_His broken lips trembled, “She can’t—”_

“ _What would your mother say if she saw her son acting like this?”_

_Tears built in his eyes, “She can’t see me like this.”_

“ _What would she say?”_

“ _She’s dead! She can’t see shit anymore!”_

“ _What would she say?”_

_The tears released and he felt the pitiful act of sobbing fall upon him. He gave up for the night._

“ _Get up; we should get that hand checked out. What are you going to tell them?”_

“ _I was in a fight.”_

* * *

 

He sat in the circle, looking pissed.

“Logan, would you like to talk today?” The woman whom acted as counselor asked.

He despised everyone who was in the room with him.

What the fuck did they know about pain?

_Bwaa, my parents took my phone away! Bwaa! My computer crashed! Bwaa, my dog died!_

They were all a bunch of pussies, in his opinion.

“Fuck off,” he pointed his eyes to the floor and crossed his arms.

“Okay then, that’s fine if you don’t want to speak. Losing someone in the family is always hard.” She said.

His chest burned.

The group therapy commenced, everyone getting their “sadness” out but him.

Finally, everyone looked at the boy he hadn’t paid attention to.

“How about you Mike?”

His eyes lifted and he glared at the fake green-haired boy.

“Yeah, sure, why not?” He shrugged and returned Curly Goth’s glare. “I was _kidnapped_ by my fellow _students_ and was held up in _Scottsdale_ for a week. I finally was about to get my way _home_ but my parents wouldn’t allow my out of _my house_ because of their paranoia that I’d be _kidnapped_ again. We _moved_ and only just recently have we come back to South Park.” He said; his eyes darkened.

“Oh, that’s very saddening. Isn’t that right everyone?”

They nodded, saying they’re sorry.

They both continued to glare at each other.

“Alright, time’s up. Remember, next meeting is the last for the semester!” She said cheerily, dismissing them.

He stood up, eyes burning coals, and he pulled his bag onto his shoulder. He exited without saying a word.

“What happened to you?” A small bruise had formed where he had punched him the day before.

“Nothing,” he snapped. He was feeling so very moody lately.

“Yeah, well, I don’t think punching me would cause you to bruise on the face too.”

“Fuck off,”

“Why do you say that so much?” He walked next to him, looking at him slyly.

“Fuck off,”

“Do you live in an abusive household?” He was getting warmer.

“Fuck off,”

“Is that why you’re in this group therapy thing?”

“No, wait, fuck off! Stop asking me so many dumb-ass questions you vampfag!”

“Oh, never heard _that_ before.” He rolled his eyes.

“Get away from me.”

“What if I said no?”

“I’d have to kick your ass!” He snapped, pushing himself into the bathroom. He hated them, but if it were to make the vampire kid go away, he would put up with it.

He followed, “What if I told you that I’d enjoy that?”

Curly Goth growled, “I’d make it so you wanted to die.”

“I’ve changed. Have you?” His brown eyes stared at him.

“Get out,” he stepped into the only stall in the boy’s bathroom.

He held the door open, “No,”

“Get out,” he tried to close the door, “Get out!”

“I’ll get to the point then:”

“Get out!”

“I _will_ get my revenge on you,”

He hesitated.

“I will,”

“...get out,”

He sneered and let go of the door.

The curly-haired teen sat down and he cradled his head into his hands. “Fuck,”

* * *

 

He slipped into his house and he stepped up the stairs with a sense of fatigue all over his form.

His father peered out from the kitchen, “Logan, could you come here?” His voice sounded gentle, but the almost-adult couldn’t help but feel a little threatened.

He obeyed, setting his bag onto one of the steps and he walked into their kitchen.

His father was standing next to their small dining table, hands clasped in his blue jean pockets. “Come here,”

He obeyed, stepping towards his father and angrily bowing his head. His mouth turned into a scowl.

The man wrapped his hands around him and hugged him tightly. “I’m sorry,”

He only scowled harder.

“It was wrong of me to hurt you like that. I lost my temper. It was terrible of me to bring your mother into the fight. It was a low blow and I’m sickened by myself that I had the audacity to mock you with the dead.”

His teeth ground together.

“I’m sorry,”

He pushed and kicked him away, screaming nonsense at the man who called him his father. “ _Bullshit!_ How _dare_ you bring her back up again! How dare you go on about being sorry, just like every other mother-fucking time! Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” he kicked him several times in the side, face burning as his blood rushed to his face.

He pulled his leg and he pulled him to the floor, jarring the boy’s hand and knocking his elbows roughly against their tiled floor.

Curly Goth gave a cry of pain and he kicked his father’s hands away from his ankles, “How dare you be like this, you dick-face! I hate you! _I fucking hate your fucking guts!_ ” His voice screamed, scratchy from being underused. He stood up, limbs feeling long and stringy as he towered over his fallen father.

He ground his teeth as he glared up at his son, “I try to make amends but you’re not accepting me at all! You spoiled sonava bitch!” He shot to his feet and back-handed the seventeen-year-old across the face, other hand clenched into a fist.

“I swear I’ll _kill_ you if you hit me again!” He screamed, back against their dinner table.

“I’ll be _forced_ to hit you again if you don’t stop acting like such a spoiled brat! I know you’ve entered puberty pretty late, but I’m not taking this bullshit from you!” The man shouted back.

“Fuck you! I’m leaving this shit hole!” Curly Goth turned and stepped limply towards the stairs to grab his bag. He could give two shits about clean clothing; as long as he had his cigarettes and some money he knew he’d be fine. Luckily all of those things were in his school bag.

His eyes grew wide and he stopped Logan in his tracks, “Wait, Logan, please, you can’t leave!”

“Stop calling me _Logan!_ I despise that cock-sucking name almost as much as I hate you!” He shoved past him and grabbed his cane from the coat hanger by the door.

“Wait—!” He gagged as the cane slammed into his stomach and knocked the air out of his lungs.

The curly-haired boy marched up the stairs and to his bag. He threw it over his shoulder and he stomped to the front door. He paused, glaring at his father, before he flew him the bird and marched out. “Fuck you!”

The door slammed and the man struggled to regain his breath.

* * *

 

She was beautiful. He had decided it very long ago and now it seemed almost second nature for him to think of her like that.

She was the most beautiful, non-conformist, original and creative person he had ever met and he was... in love. Disgusting, disgusting love...

And that all sucked.

Hands against hips, lips against lips; he was content as things were, love or no love.

Henrietta’s eyes drifted up and pointed to the door. “Someone’s here,” she told him.

Red Goth pulled away from her and they arranged their clothes back into perfect place.

Rapid knocking echoed through the house from the front door.

She blinked rapidly before she sat back, “The bitch will open the door.”

Footsteps stomped up the stairs and Henrietta’s door slammed open.

Red Goth blinked at the curly-haired Goth, “What happened?”

He stepped in, all energy seeming to drain at the door, and he slumped against the wall, hand held tight against his forehead.

“What happened?”

“I’m going to kill him.”

They both looked at him with their normally narrowed eyes.

“Why?” Red Goth asked.

“I’m going to kill him.”

Henrietta stood up and walked over to him. She knelt down and looked at him, trying to catch eye contact, “What did that bastard do?”

“I’m going to kill him.”

* * *

 

“I seek you out,” the girl said in a sing-song voice, “Flay you alive. One more word and you won’t survive.”

“That’s ‘Eyes on Fire’ isn’t it?” He pointed out, seated back in the small corner of the even tinier book store.

The arriving girl and her circle of friends looked over at him and their eyes grew into saucers.

“M-Mike?” The raven-head cried in excitement as she sped over to him with her arms held open wide.

The teen stood up, stretching his legs, and welcomed her hug.

“I thought you moved!” She said, only squeezing him tighter.

“I came back. I missed my friends.” He said, feeling so out of place next to all the people whom used to dress exactly like his self.

They had all changed. They have all reverted back to their old selves, back to their sports and back to their old fashion.

Was he the only one who had stayed vamp?

Was he the only one who saw it as more than a trend?

“What are you dressed in?”

He pulled away from his female friend and looked at the sandy-blonde. He couldn’t even remember his name... “Stuff from Hot Topic,” he replied to the no-name.

The blonde glared at him, “Only Goths and Vamps shop at Hot Topic.”

The black-haired girl stepped back and integrated back into the group.

“And?” He didn’t like the direction the conversation was heading.

“Only _Goths_ and _Vamps_ shop there.” His voice was granite against a steel grate, repeating such “facts” to the vampire boy.

“ _And_? What’s wrong with being Vamp?” His voice held the same sort of irritation the fellow boy’s had.

“Goths and Vamps are fags to the highest level, that’s what.” The teen grunted.

His face contorted into a look of sheer disgust, “Shut up! I’m not gay! Anyway, you _were_ Vamp too!” His hands were clenched, “Does that make _you_ gay?”

“I’m not fucking Vamp anymore! I’m _normal!_ ”

His face only twisted further, “I’m not normal? _Normal?_!” He yelled, “I’m a normal person like you! What makes me abnormal? Just my clothes? That’s hardly abnormal!”

Red-faced, he breathed heavily to attempt to calm himself.

“Nothing about _pretending_ to be a vampire is normal!” The sandy-blonde yelled back.

His chest caved slightly, “So that means we’re not actually friends then.”

The black-haired girl looked up at him but couldn’t say anything.

“Fine then, whatever,” he maneuvered past the group and out of the bookstore.

The group watched him quietly before they fell back into normal routine.

Mike walked down the street, shoulders hunched, head held down, and had his hands stuffed deep into his pockets.

“Damien,”

His walking ceased and he lingered by the deep alleyway.

“Yeah? What do you want?” The voice was high and while the tone seemed like it could be feminine, a high level of masculinity held strong under it.

“I...” the voice faltered, low and with a sense of nervousness, “I need your help.”

The voice laughed, long and trembling, “Since when did you _need_ my help?”

Silence ensued, the even breathing of them becoming more apparent.

"Since I decided to kill him,”

“Oh!” More laughter...

Mike pinned himself against the wall, eyes held wide to the street in front of him.

“Now that’s something different! What would you like my help in?”

“... I need you to lend me a bit of your power.”

“And what do you plan to pay my services in?”

“...”

Mike’s ears strained.

“... What would you want?”

“Your blood... your soul... Whatever’s better for you?”

His lips trembled as he worried over the conversation. It was clearly the Goth who had broken his hand punching him who was speaking and that only worried him further.

Did the Goth intend on killing him?

“How much blood?”

“What’s your type?”

“O positive,”

“Four pints,”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Would you like me to raise the number?” The voice grated out.

“No... that’s fine.”

“Good.

“You’re blood type is actually really common blood type and the amount needed has to be higher than others. Now, if it were really rare, than you could pull off a pint, maybe half. But you can’t, because you’re so very _common_.”

He growled, “This won’t kill me, will it?”

He chuckled, “Probably no, unless you loss a shit load more than five pints. You know that’s like, half the amount of blood in your body, right?”

The other was quiet again.

“Oh, would you like to bleed in front of me?” He called mockingly, “Too afraid to do it alone?”

He growled, cane tapping angrily against the alley floor. “Fuck off,”

“Fine, fine,” footsteps, “came back to me when you have an answer,”

Mike stood face-to-face with a frightening boy with fiery eyes and smoky hair.

“Oh, hello,” he smiled, teeth sharp and yellowed.

His heart felt like it had died when the teen had said ‘hello’.

“What are you doing here? Eavesdropping?” His eyes lit with a version of joy that only connected to him. It was the joy that accompanied a minority of people; a look of joy at the sight of a loved one dying, at the sight of an animal being tortured, at the sight of someone about to be killed

The look of joy that only accompany those people who hold extreme malice towards mankind, to those who have killed ever since an early age, to those whom have walked to the beginnings and to the ends of the earth.

Tears peeped from the corners of his eyes.

“Are you whom my _dear friend_ was talking about?” He did a semi-circle around him, looking at him from crown to sole.

Mike trembled a little.

“Or are you a simple stalker; a boy with too much time on his hands and an obsession over Gothicism?” He laughed.

The curly-haired boy stepped out of the alley, drawn by the noise. He stared at the two before he made a step away from them.

Damien gripped onto his arms and he dragged him over to the vampire boy. “Is this what you want?”

The Goth was frozen, trapped in between the Anti-Christ’s hands. He seemed shaken, eyes wide but adverted. His face was covered in goose-bumps, oddly, and his cheeks seemed to be sunken in.

Almost as if his actual life energy were being sucked out of him.

“Is this what you were hiding for? Do you like him? Don’t be afraid, I’m not homophobic or nothing.”

He couldn’t move. He was frozen in time.

“Damien,” his voice hovered.

He blinked and leaned over his shoulder slightly, looking at him in the face. “Yeah?”

“Let me go, please,”

“ _Please_? You’re not Logan! Who are you?” He shouted sarcastically, laughing soon afterwards.

He bared his teeth, “Let me go you cock-sucker!”

Damien rolled his eyes, “More gay jokes? Can’t you think of anything else? Like our proposal, for instance! I’d like an answer now, just for that! Yes? No?” He let go of the Goth and looked down at him.

He glared at Mike before he looked back at Damien, “Get him out of here and I’ll answer.”

Mike’s eyes grew wide and smoke filled his lungs.

He coughed and gagged, dislodging the smoke from his lungs. His eyes felt like they were falling from their sockets and his chest burned. He coughed more, eyes trying to search through the cloud of white smoke that had accumulated around him.

When it finally cleared, he found himself in front of his house.

He looked around wildly, searching for the boy named Damien and the Goth kid.

They were nowhere in sight.

“Oh god, he’s going to kill me.” His face drained of color and he felt like he were to vomit. He dashed down the sidewalk, heartbeat quick and his eyes peeled back in panic.

* * *

 

“You see, bloodletting is very simple.” Damien said calmly as he leaned over him.

He was seated in a placebo house, empty and dusty on the inside and lively and lush out the out. On an average kitchen chair, he certainly didn’t feel like he was about the sacrifice blood to the son of Satan.

And yet there he was, arm held out, sleeves rolled up, knife held close to paling skin. And he didn’t feel an ounce of fear over this decision, no guilt... nothing.

Apathy: that was what he felt. That was how he was. That was how he was supposed to be.

And there he was, indifferent to the fact that he was bloodletting with the Devil’s son. He wasn’t afraid of betrayal, or death, or damnation; just apathetic; simply apathetic.

His chest tingled and his fingertips warmed.

“Normal bloodletting involves a simple prick of the finger and several drops of blood. That’s _normal_ bloodletting, however, and we’re not dealing with those stupid little acts of blood sacrifice to me and my father. It’s time for the serious business, because you are a very _special_ case.” He grinned, yellowed teeth shining against the light that filtered through the dusty windows.

“For this method, I personally call it blood-spilling, because it involves a large amount of blood coming out in a short period of time. It’s terrible for the person’s health, but I could really care less.”

His apathy never left him, strangely.

“So, before I get this started, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Fine,”

“Alright, what of my powers would you enjoy to barrow?”

“Give me the ones that will torture him in the most painful way possible.”

He nodded and hummed quietly, “Alright, alright. How long will you need them?”

“Several days,” his voice was light and feathery.

“Whom will you be using these powers upon?”

He looked up at him with a look of confusion.

“I know, I know, but it is protocol. I can’t have you killing someone who’s important to history and the likes. So who’s it?”

“My father,”

His eyebrows shot up and he grinned even wider, “Ooh! Alright, that’s cool with me then.”

He nodded quietly, eyes falling to the floor.

“Okay, one last question. What would you like to listen to while we do this? I find that Nessun Dorma really sets a calming mood, but it’s really up to you.” He pointed to the small music player in the corner.

“It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Fine,” he stepped over to the small boom box and he pressed play.

The music swelled as he stepped back over to “Logan”.

“I don’t think I need to explain to you that this’ll be painful. Nor do I think you’ll care if it is or not. Let’s get this started.” He took the scalpel from the Goth and he grasped his wrist tightly. “Alright!”

He watched down in a queer sense of nothingness as the Anti-Christ placed the sharp edge of the scalpel against the crook of his elbow and dug it deep into his skin. Pain surged through him and he arched against it, lips sealed as if tied with ropes.

He drew the blade straight down to his wrist, eyes brightening only that much more as blood started to burst free from his cut skin and over his pale arm like a gentle tide. Damien yanked the Goth’s arm only that much further over the metal tub that rest on the floor below his arm.

His blood dripped into it with small metallic clanks.

_Clank, clank, clank..._

The music swelled as Pavarotti hit the climax of the song.

Damien exhaled happily, shuddering a little, “Beautiful sound isn’t it?”

He was still uncaring; his eyes being the only part of him that now showed any hint of pain.

He knelt down in front of him and peered up at Curly Goth’s face, “Haunting?”

“I suppose,” he replied quietly.

_Clank, clank, clank..._

Damien leaned forward and he placed his lips softly against the crook of his neck, “C’mon, I don’t want you to be _this_ accepting. Fight a little, change your mind, grow some balls; something Logan.”

“Would you stop calling me Logan?” His voice was even, devoid of all hatred that he had previously held to his name.

He trailed to his jaw, touching underneath it gently, “I liked you because of your seemingly endless rage towards life. Where’s the fun where you’re so quiet and submissive? Can you fight the little spell I put on you... or do you just not want to?”

“Stop,” again, no actual emotion behind his words.

He sighed heavily and he pulled away and got to his feet. “Ugh, so boring.” He took the scalpel and he dug the edge back into the heavy wound, sliding roughly across muscle and gave a satisfied cry as he reached bone. “ _There_!”

His body trembled at the vibration and sound that the steel made against his own bone. The blood gushed.

Damien dug his fingers deep into the long cut and ripped it open wider, face contorting into an expression that no human could ever have. He turned the other teen’s arm around so the cut face the floor, his hands still holding the wound open, and he made a noise of joy as the blood spilled into the bucket below.

Tears fell from his eyes.

“Almost there,” his face never changed from that ungodly look that struck fear deep in his soul. “ _Other arm_!”

“Wait...”

“Almost... there...” Damien purred as he placed a quiet kiss on Curly Goth’s lips. “Release yourself. Release all of your blocks and show me the _true_ you.”

The kiss deepened and soon their teeth were grinding against each other and their tongues were broken and bleeding.

Curly Goth shuddered. His eyes flew open and he screamed. He screamed as hard as he could, tears in his eyes and on his cheeks. “Oh my god!”

Damien screamed with laughter: more demon than man. He yanked Logan’s arm over the second metal pan, so hard it dislocated from its socket.

“ _ **FUCK!**_ ” He screamed, other arm waving slightly and blood splattering everywhere.

“Keep that arm _over_ the tub!” Damien barked, eyes glowing.

He stiffly obeyed, robotically forcing his arm over the pans. He couldn’t stifle his sobbing. All of his corks had been popped and everything that was him, had been him, and would be him all flew out.

He wept for everything that was wrong in his life; for his dead mother, for his abuse, for the fact that his “friends” could never possibly understand pain such as his.

Damien slammed the scalpel into his other arm and he ripped through it, leaving a jagged and uneven cut. He twisted the arm so that the blood fell thickly into the tub.

"How much _fucking blood_ have you taken from me?” He screamed as his body jolted in agony. His skin was covered in sweat and was clammy, his cheeks red.

“Not enough!” Damien screamed back, stomach rumbling “There’s _not nearly_ enough!”

“Stop!” Curly Goth snapped, eyes bursting forth new tears... “That’s enough!”

“No!” He barked. He dug his fingers deep into the freshest wound and he tore it open wider.

“ _Fuck!_ Stop..!” His face was hot but his skin was pale. “...Fuck!”

Damien stopped, face hanging human again. “How much have you lost?” He asked himself as he peered at the twin tubs of blood.

His head felt like it was emptying and his eyes dropped. He fell limp.

“Shit!” He quickly picked up the teenager’s arms and he quickly pulled the needle and spool of thread off of the floor. He stitched up both arms hurriedly, eyes wide.

He bathed his hands in Logan’s blood and guiltily ate it, drinking it down quickly. If only he had time to enjoy it. Too bad he went overboard... again.

The son of Satan lifted up the curly-headed boy’s head and leaned forward, pressing bloodied lips to bloodless ones. He pulled himself onto him.

The door slammed open and Mike threw himself in. “Don’t give him those powers!” He yelled.

Damien’s body held lithe against Logan’s limp form. He arched his back and tilted his head back, black hair falling to the side slightly. His lips were puckered and a large trail of blood dripped down his face.

“Would you like him to die?” He pulled away, blood dripping from his form. He rolled his reddened lips together and smiled at him.

Mike’s eyes were held to the boy’s teeth, ears taunt to the dripping of the unconscious one’s blood into the metal pans. The smell of his life essence caked in his nose and mouth, swelling his throat.

“No...”

“Then why do you tell me to stop?” His cheeks folded as his Glasgow smile grew in size, “Would you like some blood?”

The boy pulled a face, looking disgusted. He backed up a little, eyes wavering across the two in the center of the room and at the similar metal basins on the floor under the Goth.

“Did you kill him?”

“ _Me_?” He laughed a little, cracking his neck loudly and said, “Well, I did actually. Didn’t very much mean to but I did. Very tragic, actually... I liked him quite a lot too. Mm... Well, I _was_ going to bring him back... you know, until _you_ stepped in.”

Mike’s face grew white.

“But hey, I know when my assistance isn’t wanted.” He stood up and suckled his reddened hand, running an extremely wet tongue across his lips.

“Wait!” Mike yelled, back to the door.

His eyebrow quirked and he privileged him with a normal smile. “Yes?”

“I’ll leave.” His eyes flickered, “I’ll leave so you can continue.”

“Are you sure? It’s quite a show.”

“I promise I won’t tell anyone.” His hand gripped around the doorknob, voice dripping with fear and quiet like a hummingbird.

He chuckled a little, “I don’t care. No one can _do_ anything about it, so why bother? You can even tell Jesus if you like!”

He opened the door and stared at the two, “He’s going to kill me.”

He snorted, teeth racking across blood-covered lips, “Is that why you’re here? Because you think he’s going to kill you? You South Parkians are so funny sometimes, I swear.” He laughed again, seeming very much off the loose, “Alright, either you get out or pull up a seat.”

Mike pulled his shoulders up to his neck and he backed out of the house, “Could I ask you something?” He asked at the door.

Damien looked at him oddly before he nodded.

“If he were to try to kill me with these powers you’re giving him... How could I stop him?”

He snorted again, “Time.”

“What?” He asked loudly, face contorted in confusion.

“You see that bag hanging on that hanger?”

He looked inside the house again and at the coat-hanger that rested by the door.

“Open it and take the rope. It’ll be useful to you.”

He stepped in and searched through the leather backpack. He found a long circle of rope, thick and tough to the touch. Mike pulled it out and slung it over his shoulder. He looked at Damien and nervously nodded his head in thanks.

Damien turned himself back to Logan and he sat on his weak lap, running a hand down the side of his face. He placed a peck on his lips and tilted his head to the side.

“Sorry about that, _Logan_ , but your little _friend_ was very concerned about you. In fact, I’m sure he was trying to peep at us right now!” His eyes rolled around in their sockets before they pointed over towards the door.

Despite no sign of Mike being there, Damien knew the boy was scurrying away.

“I know I shouldn’t be doing this, since it’s against Father’s conduct... but I do like you a bit after all, and I _am_ the Anti-Christ...” He said to the technically dead boy under him. “So I think I will bring you back to life.”

Damien leaned to the side and scooped a handful of thickening blood into his hand and observed loudly that it was still warm. He gently licked it off his fingers and palm before he turned back to the boy and kissed him again.

He slammed his palms into Curly Goth’s chest and dug his fingers deep into his shirt and in his skin. He forced his sharp nails deep into his chest, impaling through skin and muscle and straight to his ribs. He groaned, wincing sharply as he pushed his demonic powers deep into the teenager’s body

His skin glowed, red, as if a large amount of light had been passed through his entire body. His form convulsed, skin turning flush and his wounds healing themselves.

The stitches fell out, long scars replacing where the cuts had been; his arm relocated, his broken hand healed, and the wounds around Damien’s fingers started closing in.

He pulled away quickly and smiled at his handy work. “Logan?”

His eyes snapped open and his teeth flashed. He shot his hands up and around Damien’s throat, jerking his head back and forth.

Damien yowled in laughter and he placed his bloody hand against his cheek. “Calm! Down! Logan!”

“You son of a bitch!” He screamed, eyes dark with anger, “You fucking killed me, you bastard! You have no right to tell _me_ to calm down! I’m fucking pissed! I’d fucking kill you if it were possible! And stop calling me fucking Logan too!”

He smiled and pried his hands off of his throat. He grasped them tightly and held them close to his rapidly beating chest. The Anti-Christ leaned forward and placed a small kiss on his lips.

“Calm down,”

“Fuck no!” He sharply bit the lips upon his own.

He only leaned in more. He pinned Curly Goth’s hands between their chests and he pulled his hands away and to his face. He pulled their cheeks together and he smiled brightly at him.

His eyes narrowed and he tried to pull his hands out.

“Oh, don’t be like that Logan! You know I would never _purposely_ kill you! It was an accident, honest!”

“I hate you,”

“Aw, but I _love_ you.” He chortled, hands sliding to his hair, “And anyway, I _did_ give you some wicked powers for the next couple days.”

His face settled for a moment before he said in a begrudged tone, “Thank you,”

Damien snorted as he picked himself up and off of Logan. He straightened his hair and quirked his eyebrows. “No problem, _Logan_.” He knelt beside the untouched basin and he picked it up with hands, “And thanks to _you_ for this lovely sacrifice.”

His face twisted and he peered down at his arms and the giant twin scars that were along the whole length of them. “So, tell me of these powers I know have and how to use them...”

* * *

 

He panted, animalistic, as he glared at his house.

Damien had been all too kind to him and he felt privileged that the bastard had done so much for him... even if it did involve him dying and going to Hell for several minutes.

“ _Father!_ ” He cried to the door, teeth formed in a disgusted sneer, “ _Faaaather,_ ”

* * *

 

_Mike slammed himself into the door, knocking himself onto the ground. Tears were gushing from his eyes, limbs shaking._

“ _ **Open the door!**_ _” He wheezed hoarsely, struggling to his feet._

* * *

 

He kicked the door open and he stepped in, hands tightened so much that his nails created crescents on his palms.

“Faaather _?_ ” He screamed in the cold and empty house, stomping through it. “ _Faather?”_

He peered around, glancing in all the down-stairs rooms.

“Father?”

* * *

 

“ _ **Oh god, please open the door!**_ _” His voice peeled as he slammed his hands against the door._

_It opened and a tall, black-haired man looked down at him. “What are you screaming about?”_

_Mike gagged and panted heavily, hands edged against buckled knees. “Y-Your son is going to k-kill me.”_

“ _What?” The man snapped in shock, fatigue covered eyes growing wide._

* * *

 

“Dad?” He crept up the stairs, hands running against the railing and the wall. “Daddy?”

Laughter rang in his ears, high like Damien’s voice.

He slammed his fist into the wall, muscles renewed from is resurrection. “ _ **Dad!**_ Come _out_ here you mother-fucker! Face me like a _fucking man!_ ”

He smashed his feet against the steps as he climbed them. The curly-haired teen quieted down as he made it to the second floor. He stepped down the hall, senses perked to levels beyond human.

His ears twitched: breathing, heavy and labored.

His nose stung: sweat and tears and body odor.

His eyes flickered: the shadows in the hall faded and it seemed brighter.

“Faaather?” He stepped to the door and listened to the breathing halt.

He smelled a different shampoo.

“Dad?” He leaned against the door, ear held close to the wood as he listened.

“... _Dad?_ ” He opened the door, smiling in triumph.

* * *

 

“ _Come in, come in. He hasn’t been home in a couple of days, you’ll be safe here.” He father welcomed him in with a paranoid look._

_He stepped into the drafty house and felt himself washed in an uncomfortable feeling._

“ _Why does Logan want to kill you?” He asked, masking calm._

_He was led to the living room, a small room with furniture that seemed like it should be back in the seventies again. It held that smell of forced preservation and certainly made him feel like he had traveled back in time._

“ _That’s the thing! I don’t know! I heard him talking with this Damien kid about killing someone, and-and I might have threatened to get revenge on him, but I wasn’t gonna kill him! Please believe me!” He cried in stress and despair and fear._

_The man looked at him oddly, “Revenge for what?”_

“ _...for kidnapping me and shipping me off to Scottsdale six years ago.”_

_He lingered in his step before he sat down on the old couch. He held his head down and he sighed heavily. “I’m so sorry. My- My son,” he exhaled airily, “My son just won’t stop acting up. He won’t stop hurting others and being so destructive towards himself.”_

_Mike sat down next to him, heart settling a little._

“ _He,” the man laughed sadly, “He told me, the last time we talked, that he’d kill me if I touched him again... I can’t help but think that perhaps my style of discipline just won’t work on Logan and is the cause of his anger.”_

_Mike felt his stomach tightened._

“ _I’m so sorry that you’ve been pulled into this, if you actually have. I don’t think my son is after you. In fact, I’m sure he was speaking about_ _ **me**_ _not_ _ **you**_ _. You should get out of here then. Go home; forget everything you’ve seen here.”_

“ _I can’t leave you here to him! I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”_

“ _Boy, listen here!” The man snapped sharply, scaring Mike. “If you’re here and he_ _ **does**_ _come and you’re hurt, I wouldn’t be able to live with_ _ **myself**_ _. If you want to help me, go home.”_

“ _I...”_

* * *

 

“Dad?” He smiled as he peered into the “dark” room, seeing in it perfectly with his new eyes. “I know you’re in here Dad, I can smell you. I can hear you breathing. Come out here and we can deck it out like old times.”

Something in the air didn’t smell right.

He stepped in, looking around the small bedroom quietly. He hadn’t noticed until then that it was his own dark bedroom.

His father sat on his bed, head down and his breathing heavy. “Why are you doing this?” He asked him quietly, eyes haunted as they looked at him.

“I’m going to torture you just the way _you_ fucking tortured _me_!” He snapped.

“That doesn’t answer my question, _son!_ ” He stood up and turned to him, “I asked _why_ not _what._ ”

“Why? _Why?_ ” His form shook a little, “Because you beat me every day ever since Mom fucking died! I’ve broken bones over you! I’ve been in pain all the time _because of you_! And the worst part of it all? You think you can just say ‘sorry’ and expect me to actually take you seriously! This. Is. _Enough_!” He yelled, shoulders hunched, “You’re going to die tonight!”

He took a step forward.

The man didn’t move.

“I made a deal with the Anti-Christ, _Dad_. Aren’t you proud of me? Don’t you want to go buy a bumper sticker? He gave me powers that will make your death as long and as painful as possible!” He had a look on his face, one that spoke much like Damien’s. It spoke something inhuman and cruel.

There was a creak in the old floorboards.

“I’m stronger now, my senses are better; all the damage you did on my body is gone.”

Another creak...

“I can make you squirm in fear just by looking into your eyes. I can make sure your bleeding stops no matter how bad the wound.”

The house groaned; the wind calm.

“I can do things no mere mortal can.” The look increased as he marched forward, boots scrapping against the floor. The house groaned under him.

They were face-to-face, close to eye-level.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Curly Goth asked, teeth worn as battle paint.

“What would your mother say if she saw you now?”

He hesitated, his eyes flickering over his father’s all too detailed face. “...what?”

“What would your mother _feel_ if she saw you like this?” His eyes were worn and drawn-back just like his own. His forehead was covered in worry lines and heavy, bruise colored rings hung from under his eyes. His nose was long, beak-like, and his nostrils flared lightly as he breathed.

If it weren’t for the curl in his hair and the slight difference in their heights, he would have sworn he was looking at himself.

It sickened him.

“She can’t feel anymore. She’s dead and in...” He faltered a little, lips rolling together, “She’s in Heaven,”

“That’s not the question, Logan. The question is whether or not she’d approve of you _now_ if she were alive.”

“These questions don’t matter! Do you know why? She’s dead and it doesn’t matter if I pretend to be good or something! She’s _dead!_ She’s not coming back! Ev—!”

A sharp pain struck through his head and he found himself crumpling to the ground. Blood dripped at the back on his tongue and a vibration rang through his skull.

Damien’s laughter only became louder, ringing in his head.

A boot crunched onto his lower back, pressing angrily against him. A slip of cloth went over his eyes, leaving him blind.

He struggled, ropes tying around his wrists and ankles. “Let me go, cock-suckers! Who are you?” He sniffed the air, but the scent wasn’t different than anything else in his room.

“No,”

Ice chilled his blood, “Vampfag,”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“What are you doing here?” He was picked up, most likely by his father, and laid down upon his bed. He thrashed a little.

“I came here because I thought you were going to kill me. When I found out it was really your father, I couldn’t just leave.” He replied, nails digging into his arm, right on the spot where his scar was.

“I might have to now.” He grinned, flexing his arms in an attempt to break free of his bonds.

“Sorry, those probably aren’t going to break anytime soon.”

“And why not?”

“Because they’re special... Damien gave them to me.”

He threw himself up and off the bed for a moment, growling from deep back in his throat, “And why would he do that?” He yelled.

Mike laughed, “Because I asked him.”

“That bastard! When the fuck did he do that?” He screamed.

“When you were dead...”

He grunted, face red with anger. His lips were shaking and he could feel tears in his eyes. “...fuck, the bastard is messing with me again...”

He could smell his father by the door and he could hear the man slowly stepping away.

Mike followed him, leaving Logan alone in his room.

* * *

 

A day had passed, he could hear it in the birds and he could smell it in the air.

The sun had fallen and risen again, mocking him. He had perhaps a day to finish his job before his newfound powers disappeared and he would be _damned_ if he died once for no reason.

His chest was tight with betrayal. Damien had planned it, taking his blood and giving the Vamp kid an item that could keep him contained. He had stolen a part of him and perhaps they were now tied a little.

His scars burned like his wrists and ankles, his throat was raw from yelling and screaming, and his muscles were sore from his tied position.

“Fuck you Damien! Fuck you right up the ass with something hard, rusty, and covered in AIDS!” He voice cracked several times, tears gathering against the cloth around his eyes. He floundered for a moment, lost for any other words than ‘fuck’ and ‘bastard’ and ‘mother-fucker’.

His chest burned as he cried out again; it was just a sound, deep and animalistic, a bay of anger and despair.

“ _ **Fuck!**_ ”

“You’ll destroy your voice if you don’t stop yelling.”

His lips pinched together and he growled, “Why are you here?”

“Your yelling is keeping your dad up.”

“Good! That bastard can go burn in Hell! Do you hear me _, Dad_? _**Burn in Hell!**_ ”

He was a little startled when his blindfold was removed. He glared up at Mike, eyes glossed over in an amber wax.

“He’s just trying to help,”

“Don’t talk, pussy! You have _no_ idea what that bastard’s done to me!” He screamed at him, jerking against his ropes.

The vamp was wearing one of his shirts.

“That’s true,” he glared down at him, “But I do know that your dad is a good guy and I,”

“He’s  _not_!”

“And I bet you _really_ don’t want to kill him.”

“I’ll kill you too, once I free myself.”

“Are you familiar with the song “Eyes on Fire” by Blue Foundation?” He asked, dark eyes glued to him while his green and black hair hung over his shoulders.

“I’m not.”

“It seems to suit me at this very moment. Here; listen to some of the lyrics:”

He growled.

“I seek you out, flay you alive. One more word and you won’t survive. And I’m not scared of your stolen power, I see right through you any hour.” His face was smooth and light, words monotone.

He glared at him.

“I won’t soothe your pain, I won’t ease your strain; you’ll be waiting in vain.”

“Stop fucking with me!” He yelled, eyes starting to mist just a little.

He knelt over him and retied his blindfold.

The Goth thrashed again.

“Damien told me that the thing to stop you was ‘time’. Does this make any sense to you?”

He calmed and he turned his head away, “Fuck off,”

“Just answer me.”

“Fuck off,”

Mike grunted before footsteps signaled his departure.

The snap of the door closing rang in his ears.

* * *

 

Sulfur filled the air, caking heavily into his nose. His body jolted and he struggled against his ropes, screaming, “Let me go, bastard!” in a hoarse and broken voice.

A cackle of glee filled the air, high and animalistic. “You’re so _fun_ , Logan!”

“You tricked me! You stole my blood! I hate you! I _hate_ you!” He screamed, blind to the demon in front of him.

“But I _love_ you, _Logan_!” He mocked, laughter barking through his highly tuned ears. “I love you _and_ your blood! You’re so easily manipulated!”

“Fuck you! _**Fuck you!**_ ” Tears pressed against his blindfold, lips trembling.

Damien’s hand pressed lightly against his cheek, intense heat pressing thickly through his too sensitive skin, “Gladly, of course!”

He jerked away from him, “Get away from me!” He was shaking heavily, face twisting.

“You never cease to amaze me, Logan.” He cooed, “You’re so moody! Swinging from angry to afraid in a simple switch of positions!” He giggled.

He pulled the blindfold back, smiling heavier, cheeks tearing and teeth glaring.

He jerked against his bed, eyes peeled wide in horror.

Horns spouted from Damien’s forehead, long, curled, and yellow. Fire blazed behind his iris-less eyes, depthless pits of inky darkness. His teeth were twisted and mangled, stained black and yellow.

“Hey babe,”

He snapped his eyes close, biting down on his lip sharply.

“Don’t like me, Logan?” Damien asked with a pout showing through to his voice. “You hurt me so much.” He gently placed his lips against the Goth’s chin, teeth scraping against his skin.

He shuddered as his horns rubbed against his cheek.

Damien rolled his eyes and placed both hands on his spiraled horns. He gently pushed them into his forehead, making them disappear from sight. He lowered back down again and he suckled against Curly Goth’s taunt neck, his body quivering against his.

The son of the Satan slammed their hips together, a howl erupting from the back of his throat.

Logan cried out, face twisting.

“Your time is running out, _Logan_. What are you going to do?” Damien cooed against his cheek.

He looked away in shame, “Why is this subject coming back up?” His breath hovered before he swallowed thickly, “What’s really going to happen to me tomorrow?”

He smiled, hand resting against the Goth’s side, “All of your blood will drain and you’ll die.”

His eyes snapped open, wide and colored with malice. He bit Damien’s ear roughly, trying to bite straight through.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Damien yelled, hand sinking deep into the side of Logan’s stomach.

He cried out, releasing him.

He straightened himself out, pulling his fingers out of the teen’s side. He wiped the blood off onto his pants and he sighed heavily. “It’s a shame that your blood is no longer tasty... You really were very yummy, despite being very _normal_ ,” he shrugged, “I suppose it can’t be helped, through.”

He panted heavily, grinding his teeth together, “I should have known you’d take every advantage and loop-hole you could find! Fucker!”

He sighed happily with a small smile. He sat himself on the Goth’s bed and stretched himself out next to him, “Of course!” He wrapped and arm around his shoulder, pulling him closer to his side, “What sort of Anti-Christ would I be if I played by the rules?”

His stomach shivered and he found himself worrying about his mortality. He would die in less than a day...

He... didn’t want to die...

He didn’t want to die!

“I don’t want to die,” he felt his form tremble under Damien’s arms, his eyes growing sore with tears.

“You don’t want to... die?”

“I don’t,” his chest burned, “I can’t,”

“You _can._ You _will._ ” Damien unraveled himself from around the Goth and he sat up, face calmed. His eyes melted into their human representatives and his hands turned back into their “normal” form. He brushed a hand through his hair as he looked down at him. He licked his lips.

Logan squeezed his eyes shut.

“Unless,” he tilted his eyes down on the boy, “you want to bargain something for a longer life...”

He could smell the sun inching down the sky, yawning as it descended to rest.

“What must I give you?” He trembled, “What is there that I _can_ give you?”

He sighed and he tightened a hand around the ropes binding the other black-haired male. “Not much, I’m afraid. Your blood is useless for it’s no longer yours. Funny story, actually... That stuff in you,” he dragged a finger across the large, reddened stain on Logan’s shirt, “this stuff in you _right now_ is actually a replica of my own blood. Huh! I guess there’s a little _me_ in _you_!”

He bit back his lip and he tried his hardest to ignore Damien’s words. “What is there for me to trade?”

“Your soul,”

* * *

 

The sun had set and the room grew colorless.

Mike stared blankly out of the window, brown eyes drawn quiet and emotionless. Seated in a dark kitchen, his thoughts were off to the sky and the sun that was set.

Night whispered to him.

Logan did not.

He stood up and peered in at the Black’s living room and at the slumbering man. His eyes shifted to the stairs and he pondered over the possibilities as to why the Goth had settled down.

It didn’t seem right.

He slowly climbed up the steps and he cautiously downed the brightly lit hall. He walked over to Logan’s bedroom. He opened the door and he looked blindly into the black pit of the room, eyes flickering for any sort of detail.

There was a glimmer near the bed.

Mike stepped in, eyes wide in an attempt to see better, and his hand hovered over the light switch.

“Look _, Logan_ , the peeping Tom is back.”

He flickered on the lights and let out a bloodcurdling scream. He stumbled back, hands shaking and his heart jolting. His eyes were wide at the sight, mouth held open.

Damien smiled, black and yellow teeth gleaming. His horns curled upwards from his forehead, the spiral leaving Mike hypnotized. Eyes like pools of ink looked over at him, a small flame flickering within.

Curly Goth was helped off the bed, freed from the ropes. A small, pearly trail leaked from his nose and down his lips. He was held close to the demon, hands hung loose by his sides.

The Anti-Christ ran a hand across the side of the teen’s face. He pulled the other’s face to him and he licked the slimy trail off of his face.

Mike was speechless.

“The soul is a very interesting thing.” He lightly feathered his lips against Logan’s, “The color is different for each person: lighter shades for men and darker for woman. But each has one of the six colors.”

He cracked a smile, “Red for the passionate type of person, orange for the explorers, yellow for the cheerful, green for the logical, blue for the emotional, and purple for the strange.”

Curly Goth’s eyes shifted from Damien to Mike, more of the slim dripping from his nose.

“And then there are the no color people. The one’s who hold no hue, just shade. They’re the rarest, the ones who are influenced by others the most, and the one’s who taste the best.”

Mike took another heavy step back.

“Isn’t that great to hear, Logan? You’re not so normal after all!”

He blinked thickly, lips tightening.

“Alright, enough of this... Mike, was it?” His attention pointed back at the teen, “Get out. You intervene at the worst possible times and if you don’t want me to blow you to China, I suggest you leave. Okay?” He winked, smiling with a vague sense of irritation.

Mike didn’t move.

“Didn’t you hear me?” He barked, hand moving to the Goth’s back, “Out!”

Mike jumped and he stepped out into the hall and he bolted to the stairs.

With a small flick of his finger, Damien closed the door and he looked at Logan with a subdued face. Supporting him with one of his arms, he slammed his palm roughly against the other male’s nose.

His nose cracked and the pearl colored substance rushed out and onto the floor where it formed a semi-gelatinous mess.

Damien bit his thumb and he smeared a small trail of his blood against the floor. He muttered a small incantation before he summoned his father.

The large, bulky form of Satan appeared into the room with a large whiff of sulfur and brimstone. He peered down at his son with an odd look.

“Did he give us his soul?” He asked in a booming voice.

“Yes, Father!” Damien smiled brightly.

“Good boy. What did you bargain for?”

“His soul for his mortality... He sacrificed all of his blood to me earlier and he was normally to die today.” Damien said, his grin turning towards the soulless form in his arms.

“He didn’t specify how long he wanted to live? How will you take this?” Satan asked, looking at the loop-holes created.

“I’ll _use_ him as long as he is _useful_.”

Satan nodded, “I see, I see. Mark him then.”

“Yes Father,” he spat the small amount of soul he had earlier consumed and watched as the now ink colored glob attached itself to the pearly mass on the ground.

Damien knelt down and picked up the now marked soul before he gently slipped it back into Logan’s body.

Satan left as soon as he had come.

Curly Goth’s eyes regained life and he blinked up at the demon. He pulled away from him and he glanced out the window, “I’m alive,” he marveled.

“You are,”

He looked at him, eyes narrowed, “What’s the catch?”

Damien’s smile grew in size, “Simply the fact that you _must_ obey me now. Here, let’s try that out now! Go kill your father. Method is up to you, but he must be dead by the time the sun rises.”

* * *

 

Damien stood by the door, human face pulled on, and he waited for him.

He arrived at the door of his house perhaps three hours after his orders were given, blood on his hands and splattered across his already stained shirt.

“Let’s go, Logan,” He said as he stepped towards the street.

“Don’t call me Logan,” he snapped.

“...why not?” Glancing over to his side, he watched as Logan caught up to him.

“That was _his_ name.”

“Ah, I see.” He slowed, casually strolling down the street, “What should I call you then?”

“Nothing,”

He quirked a brow and said quietly, “Oh? Why shouldn’t I call you by a name?”

“Because I don’t deserve one,”


End file.
